


Chase the Sky into the Ocean

by Pottergalval



Series: 221Broken [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Dissociation, Ficlet, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pottergalval/pseuds/Pottergalval
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is frequently bored, but what about Doctor John Watson? Depression makes John’s world monotonous and surreal…until he meets a certain consulting detective who brings some adventure back into his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I did the Very Cliche thing of using song lyrics as a title. It's from the brilliant piece, "Something Wild," by Lindsay Stirling and Andrew McMahon, which never fails to fill me with whimsy and adventure. So it seemed to fit with this fic. (Also, titles are hard, man)

Walking through London was like walking through a thick layer of fog. Everything was slow, muddled, dreary. The days went by monotonously, and yet paradoxically, a week would pass in a moment. He would put off responding to a text from Harry, only to find that he had received it five days prior. Often, he’d prep his toothbrush with paste, only to realize when he put it in his mouth that he’d already brushed his teeth. It was as if someone had taken John Watson’s home, his favourite city in the world, and warped it, like some alternate dimension.

How unfair that sleep, which would have been a fantastic escape, brought only nightmares. John tried using whiskey for a deeper sleep, but alcohol only made the dreams more bizarre: his cane turning into a gun and shooting his fellow soldiers, dreary London rain forming puddles of blood on the pavement.

When sleep wasn’t an option, John would go walking. It brought little comfort, however, trudging through the bustling streets of central London, but only hearing the loud tap of his cane mixed with his own thoughts. He just knew that everyone was staring at him, talking about him: the failed soldier who couldn’t even cope in the one place where he used to feel at home. John had joined the army for an adventure and a sense of purpose, but all too soon, that was taken away. He would never have the chance for an adventure again; how could he, with his shit leg and addled brain?

No, adventure was impossible, John knew that. The best he could hope for was to feel _something_. He started trying things that would overload his senses and jolt him back into reality: walking in the rain without an umbrella, eating spicy foods, drinking scalding coffee.

The latter being exactly what he did when he ran into Mike Stamford. While he could hardly keep track of the conversation, he soon found himself in a familiar medical laboratory, though the technology had advanced with the years. John also found himself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s deduction at St. Bart’s was the first time that John had felt engaged and present in months. Here was something _new_ , something _interesting_. Here was a person who talked to him without holding anything back or coddling him just because he was a disabled veteran. No, Sherlock Holmes was brutally honest; not just that, he was brilliant. He was _fascinating_.

He went to look at the flat the next evening, and while Sherlock was just as forward and unyielding, John was constantly reminded of his leg. He envied the taller man for the way he could leap up the stairs, two at a time, patiently waiting on the landing for John to amble up. Still, Sherlock had a way of coaxing the veteran, making bold claims, like saying he could read Harry’s drinking habits in his mobile phone, but never quite telling him why. Sherlock was keeping John engaged for as long as possible, and John had a sneaking suspicion that he was doing it on purpose. It was unnerving, yes, but God help him, it wasn’t unwelcome. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so much like a proper human being.

John’s stomach dropped when Sherlock was whisked away on some fabulous case, like something out of a noir film. He was left alone with Mrs. Hudson who, while a perfectly lovely woman, he was sure, reminded him of his leg—of his _inadequacies_ —once again.

“DAMN my leg!” Rage. _That_ was new. John Watson was angry. Angry at his misfortune, at the adventures that were clearly only allowed for other people. Angry. But more importantly, he wasn’t numb.

“You’re an army doctor.”

That was the sign: the feelings, the participation in a world that was not only his own. John knew what he needed now, and it certainly wasn’t more isolation. Not when people like Sherlock Holmes existed. So when the detective returned—when he reached out his hand and invited John to join him in his adventure—there was only one logical response.

“Oh _God_ , yes.”


End file.
